To try and exorcise this demon of woe, I kept glancing at the notes I’d made on Headstone.
Something. Just nagging at the edge of my mind.
Nope, couldn’t get it.
Yet.
Ridge arrived promptly as said. She was dressed in a navy tracksuit with white stripes and looked good, very. She handed over a package, said,
“This was at your door.”
No fucking around, I opened it fast, I was sick to death of bad mail. It contained a glove; flesh-colored material, with a soft gel-like substance filling two fingers. I tried it on and the gel seemed to almost solidify, yet was flexible. I held up my hand to Ridge, said, trying not to let the sheer bitterness leak over the tone, “See, good as new.”
There was a brief note:
Concealment comes in many guises.
Kosta.
Stewart would have loved the Zen echo.
Ridge, awkwardly, asked,
“Is it comfortable?”
Nothing wrong with a pun, especially when you lived in a country that was being rapidly flushed down the toilet.
I punned,
“If the glove fits.”
Ridge took a rapid look at the Mossberg and before she could start her Guard tirade, I lied,
“It’s a replica.”
Did this fly?
Did it fuck?
Her face turned melancholic then, and she said,
“Stewart told me about your lady friend, I’m truly sorry, Jack.”
Jack!
Shite, how sorry was she?
I went the full Irish, said,
“God knows, you’ve had your own troubles.”
She simply nodded, didn’t volunteer more, so I let it slide, asked,
“You want some coffee, tea?”
“No, thank you, let’s get moving.”
Her car was new, a powerful Audi. She said,
“It’s Anthony’s.”
Then added in that tone that only a woman can,
“For now.”
I kind of liked that.
I certainly never liked the Anglo-Irish prick anyway.
She was a fine driver, careful, confident, and with a force that hinted,
“Do not fuck with me.”
She asked, switching gear, literally, no automatic for good ol’
Anthony,
“How do you think Malachy will be?”
That was a given. I said,
“Like a bad bastard.”
She nearly smiled. I added,
“He’ll also be still scared so expect him to be even more feisty than usual.”
She risked a look at me, asked,
“Is that how you handle… fear?”
I shook my head, said,
“The reason God gave us hurleys.”
She pushed,